The Way of Losing
by EruLeuliette
Summary: L is gone and Light was sent to prison for life, but why does he keep dreaming those eerily blood-drenched dreams? Eventual character death, slight blood and gore, LightxL, pretty one-sided, I'm afraid.


**Disclaimer: **Death Note belongs to Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi, I do not own any of it even if I would love to.

**A/N**: Oh hello there pretty pretties! Couple months ago I wrote some mumbles about a dream that I had and the lovely **RiverGlow **encouraged me to turn this into a one-shot. Unfortunately it seemed my muse had left me completely but I really liked the idea of that dream and, most importantly, I did not want to disappoint RG, so I asked a friend of mine, whom I met in a Chinese LightxL forum, to write the story in Chinese and I would do the English translation.

So there, my first ever one-shot of Death Note on this site - enjoy? Ah and review please - coz the original was done so beautifully I would like to know whether my translation had jeopardised its original quality or not...

* * *

_**The Way of Losing**_

**Originally written** by **夏之轻寒**

**English Translation** by **EruLeuliette**

* * *

With a piercing whistle filling the corridor sharpened under the halo of the lights, Light Yagami had changed into his newly laundered garb and sunk into the edge of his mattress. He then snugged onto his pillow and tugged the sheets, a set of action that finished along with the whistle blow.

And that concluded his daily life, one that had been calculated like a machine.

Life imprisonment, the ultimate punishment bestowed on the world-phenomenal, malicious mass murderer Kira –Capital punishment was not an option since it had been abolished in this country. Light Yagami did not know whether he should be relieved or dejected about this. The god of the new world surely deserved something more solemn and heroic than this. Yet the very god had lost his Holy Cross during the afternoon spent in the Yellow Box – He lost control of his own fate, and had not even been able to go through his crucifixion in condolence of his believers.

He woke up boring into the bland white. The place had the typical sanitary smell of a hospital, with a mixture of the sharp clatters coming from the cardiogram and some unknown equipment.

He knew he had failed utterly and miserably.

Then there was this tedious judicial process.

Excessive, boring, disgusting, ironic – During the process he kept seeing the impassive face of Near, the teary faces of his mother and sister, the furious yet sorrowful face of Matsuda…

It's all gone now.

It had been twenty years already…or perhaps even longer than that.

Initially he harboured resentments and cursed. Sometimes he cursed his ill-fated destiny for picking up the god-damned notebook. If it wasn't for that, he would definitely be a successful leader in his society; Sometimes he cursed Near, that reckless, ignorant, evil little brat who picked up L's mess and became the world's greatest detective whom had Kira beaten; Sometimes he cursed Misa and Takada, believing in women was certainly his most lethal fault.

He forgot how many days he had been cursing, or how many months, or even years…

And he was doomed to grow numb about all that.

Time serves like a hollow wall, gradually absorbing and draining all his anger, resistance, distain and hatred.

He became impassionate.

God is dead, but humans are still alive – they suffer in the name of the fallen god.

He rarely recalled the past. At first he was avoiding it consciously, but as time flew he found himself unable to recall those events. The names he wrote on the note, the girl standing at the edge of the skyscraper with vacant eyes, the man waiting in front of a roaring train for his body to be crushed and blood to be split onto the platform…

It all grew blurry and distant now, just like the writings on thermal papers. No matter how grandiose or striking those deaths once were, they had all dimed and faded into the stream of time, leaving no trace.

But there was one thing that had been bothering this life-prisoner. It's like some annoying popup advertisements on your web browser, you would not have known where it came from, and there was little you could do to stop them.

Whenever he entranced himself into blankness, deep down his hollow brain it played that scene: The sound of silence filling the monitor room stuffed by screens, and then there was those red lights. Red symbolises passion, yet it as well symbolises tension and danger. That was why he found himself curled up unnervingly every single time in that illusion. Such discomfort almost took his breath away from him, until that familiar, delicate teaspoon flung into air in slow motion, leaving a track of silver behind it, and then – ting – the clatter it made when it fell onto the marble floor. Almost every time he jumped on that sound. The intensive movement of his body forcefully refrained these mental pictures from playing.

He concluded that this was just some random reflection of his daytime life. But then he always experienced even more unpleasant feelings during the night.

He had that dream ever since the day he had been put into jail.

There was neither sound nor light in that dream, entrancingly distant as if in another outlying universe.

In that dream he saw L, his archenemy, his defeated opponent, and the one who helped in crushing his Holy Cross.

He wondered why he could never figured the dream's repetitiveness whilst he was in it and rather just feeling slightly discomforting. When he woke up he was overwhelmed by confusion and astonishment, but gradually, with the its increasing occurrences, he had gotten used to it. Not that he would be able to do otherwise really.

L was always glowing in that dream, surrounding by some sort of light in a mixture tone of blue and white. His appearance never changed. He stood in front of him with his back arching slightly, hands in pockets. He was in the same simple white shirt and his hair wild as always, as if never once had been combed. Light could not help but wonder if L's hair had been this long all the time – long enough to curtain half of his face? L's skin seemed paler than usual, his lips almost colourless, and even the large ebony eyes that had stared through his soul had been covered up by dark tresses. All of these had made this provoking old pal of his more unapproachable and eerier than usual.

The other reason he hated this dream is because of the way he behaves in it.

L repelled him. He was the one who lit the road to his doom. He still remembered how he was ravished with joy when he held that falling body, calling his name out lound and pretending to be more agonised and scared than anyone. He still remembered how he kneeled in front of his grave like a lunatic, howling out his final victory.

However in this dream he suffered. The depressiveness would not let go of him. His heart was drenched with pain, his limbs powerless.

Somehow he felt that the L appeared in it was sad, although every time he woke up he asked why this dead soul kept revisiting him again and again, affecting him with his lifeless, meaningless sorrows.

But in the dream his emotions were controlled by this provoking old friend. He never had such helpless sense of misery while he was awake.

He wanted to get closer to him, although wasn't sure whether he was trying to comfort L or himself. He walked towards that silent and distant figure, wanting to touch him just so slightly, or maybe ask for a warm embrace if possible – but then in horror he found the other started bleeding, blood welling up every inch of the skin that he had touched. Light was bewildered by such situation, be it in or out of the dream. Fear and guilt filled him and the more he tried to help the worse it got. L's white shirt was soon drenched with crimson, and from his constant and clumsy touches L fell like a broken doll, bloodstains anywhere and everywhere. In his counterproductive attempt to help he was engulfed by shock and pain, to the point which he almost screamed. At last he looked at L's face, it was oh so close but still he couldn't see his eyes. Under the bewildering tresses there left only the hoar skin and lips tainted with sorrow.

Every time he awaked, feeling startled, his body drenched and breath ragged.

Sometimes he would be so outraged that he cursed that perished man. He had lost alright, but L lost the game way before him and within his own hands – What is it with a loser to haunt him like this? To scared him to death? But after several warnings from the wards and his fellow prisoners, he learnt to curse in silence.

Life in redemption was tedious yet peaceful. He remembered less and less, and responded less and less. Sayu came by once and told him in tears that mother had passed away. Surprisingly he only felt sorry about it for a couple of days.

His parents, sister and himself – they used to be just like any other families, but that seemed to have happened so long ago, as if it took place in his previous life; as if it was just a film that he happened to have watched during childhood, the sceneries soft and warm and comforting – and yet he could remember neither the name nor the plots of that film.

What has happened should just be forgotten and let go, like an unnamed old film, because they carried no significance whatsoever any more.

He finally realized that time was much more malicious than shinigami –It ends love as well as hate; it ends ambition as well as hope; it bestows lives as well as death.

Without one even knowing.

Day by day he grew older, and untempered.

He started to feel that he would be able to match his old rival in terms of emotionlessness and blandness now.

Oh yes, that man. The so-long-ago unnerving opponent was the only one who would occasionally come and disturb his tranquil soul now.

Although Light Yagami felt that he did not for the faintest bit want to be disturbed, and he still couldn't figure out the meaning of that dream.

He had noodles during the day. The wards said happy birthday to him whilst giving him the food.

"Happy birthday."

The moment he heard those two words, he felt like he was listening to some foreign nonsense.

He finished his noodle calmly and emotionlessly, and tried to figure out which birthday was this.

Sixty-three? Sixty-six? Sixty-eight? Or even older?

Not that it really mattered.

Once again he sank into his pillow even before the whistle blew. Sleep would help in ending this ordinary day.

But there was something different tonight.

Something different indeed.

Once again he saw his old acquaintance in the dream.

But this time it was not in the monitor room brightened up by eerie blue lights, it was outside.

The sun was bright but did not dazzle, shadows of trees flickered on the ground lively. There were breezes in the cool air, though barely sensible like the warmth of one's breathing. He snuck his nose, there were dim traces of sakura in the air too.

L crouched with his unique position in a bench near him. He was wearing the plain white shirt and faded blue jeans, just as always.

He reminded himself that this was the campus of his alma mater, L came to him that day, with the exact same position.

He stared and waited – almost hoping that L would turn to him and raise his hand and greet him by saying "Hello, Light-kun".

But he didn't.

That evil creature did nothing like last time, actually. He just crouched on the bench, arms wrapping securely around legs, eyeing earnestly on the changing shadows on the ground.

Perhaps because of the change of environment, Light Yagami did not feel the usual intensiveness nor did he sense sorrow radiating from L.

Thus he just relaxed and stood there observing his old friend. His mood brightening up bit by bit.

Slowly he walked towards the bench and sat a few inches across L. Then he turned and looked into his nemesis, or, shall we say, his old pal.

It took ages for L to realise his presence. Slowly he turned his head, one that still covered with bewildering dark tresses.

He was just as pale as usual. His lips tainted with a faint colour. Thanks to the bright sunlight Light Yagami for the very first time observed that L had a beautiful nose – high, straight, and neat. He couldn't help but to recollect the feeling that he had when he punched that nose and, of course, he remembered nothing. All he could remember was a pile of mess, every time they fought there were anger and fury and limbs and fingers everywhere. At this very peaceful moment Light couldn't really pull himself to think of something that was quite the opposite.

And to his surprise he saw L's eyes. They were hollow and dark still, looking through the tresses straight into his soul. They were deep like a lake yet empty like a hollow. They were looking at him as if to find out his secrets like before, or maybe they were just simply looking, treating Light's face the same as a snatch of shadow on the ground.

He remained silent, not that he knew what to say. So he just stared.

"Light-kun."

For what seemed like forever, L's lips snitched, breathing out his name like a sigh and mutter. The slightly ragged voice was covered with usual familiar warmth. The speaker seemed to have thousands of words to say, yet he also seemed to just feel like calling his name.

He almost broke down in hearing that, and in stiffness he waited for the next words.

But L said nothing more, he just continued to bore into him, his eyes glazed with tenderness and languor. He even seemed to have curled up a small smile around his lips.

Oh how I missed this…L.

Light Yagami breathed, sitting in the warm breeze of spring and the sweetness of sakura, he leaned back to the bench and looked up those shaking greens and thought absentmindedly.

* * *

"Sir, the prisoner of Room R1037 has been confirmed dead this morning. There is no sign of bodily harm or illness. Assumed natural cause of death."

"The prisoner that vibrated the world a few decades back, the self-claimed god and mass murderer, Light Yagami?"

"That is correct, sir."

**_-fin-_**


End file.
